Close Enough
by Thunderbolt Blast
Summary: When Yugi Mutou invites you on a date, you are ecstatic. You adore him. And the date would have been perfect, if not for that one factor about only being "close enough" to who he really wants. Post-series, one-shot. Yugi/reader, implied Yugi/Yami


When he calls that morning, just before you're going out to school, to say you are ecstatic is an understatement. His voice is gentle and warm over the phone, as he asks how you've been and whether or not you'd join him tonight, at a restaurant you've heard of but never been to. You're barely able to stutter out a reply, heat in your face, your heart fluttering in a way akin to a butterfly in a cage.

Because, why wouldn't you be? It's _Yugi Mutou, _Mutou-san, the King of Games _himself_, calling you. Asking you out. You only met him a few times before, rather sparsely, at some dueling tournaments, where you became acquainted with him. You remember your first meeting with him, when you dropped your Duel Disk while trying to slot your deck in and sending cards flying everywhere, and how he bent down to help you pick them all up. Even remembering his compliments on your deck are enough to make you smile.

You still can't believe, as you hear the _click _over the phone as he hangs up, that he remembers you at all. Surely he's met crowds of other girls, prettier girls, richer girls, more talented girls, who admire him just as much—if not more than—you, and for good reason: he's cute. He's kind. He's a genius at dueling without being arrogant about it, unlike Seto Kaiba (and you still can't understand what _his _fans see in _him_).

Essentially, he is perfect.

You spend the next few minutes in a daze, staring out into space as you say goodbye to your mother and head out the door, the fact that yes, Yugi Mutou really _did _just call you now and ask you out sinks in. When it does, you're seized by the overwhelming urge to squeal like a fangirl who's had too much sugar, and then you feel embarrassed and crush the urge. You aren't just some fangirl to him, right? You're acquaintances, if not friends. Doesn't that count for something?

For a moment, as you walk down the street, you consider calling your friends about this. However, after a bit of an internal struggle, you decide not to. It sounds more appealing, you decide, to simply wait until the next day, when you'll tell them the next day all about how wonderful your date with Yugi Mutou was.

* * *

You spend the rest of the day in a kind of stupor, eyes frequently on the clock as you impatiently wait for it to reach three-thirty. The voices of the teachers, the other students, all fade in and out through your ears like a perpetual low, unintelligible hum. Even at lunch, while your friends chatter amongst themselves about the latest gossip and their boyfriends, you pick at your food while lost in fantasy. Sometimes throughout the day, you glance around to search for him in class, in the halls, in the cafeteria, in the schoolyard. You're almost always able to pick him out right away—his hair is hard to miss—but every time you do, he's always in conversation with his own friends, never catching your eye. But your heart skips a beat at the sight of him regardless.

At last, at _long _last, the final bell rings to signal the end of the school day. You practically trip over yourself in your rush to say a hasty goodbye to your friends and run home, almost missing the note from your mother left on the kitchen counter about how she'll be back late as you burst through the door. You spend the rest of the day trying to prepare yourself, as the hours tick on, for the time when you'll have to go and meet him at the restaurant he suggested.

You rummage through your closet repeatedly, making a mess of things as clothes are tossed in all directions. When you finally find the ideal outfit, the one sure enough to bring out your eyes and complexion, pretty but not childish or tasteless, your room looks as if a clothing-filled hurricane hit it. But you brush it off as you sit down to put on your makeup—surely, you'll be able to clean it up right away when you get back.

When you're finished applying the last of your makeup, the hour has come for you to go, and you set off. The walk isn't far and you see him soon enough when you arrive, standing by the doors as he said he would. Your breath hitches the moment you see him, cutting a wonderful figure in a simple outfit: a white shirt, black jacket and matching pants, low-heeled shoes with silver buckles, enough not to be overly formal for just a date, but not too casual on the other end.

As you approach, however, you are suddenly seized by a whole barrage of frantic worries and speculations, on a million ways on how the date could go wrong and how ugly you might look now and oh _god_, what if it ends so badly you'll never be able to look him in the eye again? Your hands feel clammy, your heart racing a mile a minute, as your imagination of all the possible disasters runs rampant. You start to think, for just a split second, that maybe this wasn't a good idea. Maybe you should have turned him down.

But then he smiles at you, and all those thoughts melt away like snow under a radiant sun.

"I'm glad you made it," he says, and his voice is as warm, as sweet as it was over the phone. "You look beautiful."

"Oh—thank you," you manage to say, grateful that it doesn't come out as a stutter, as you return the smile as confidently as you can. "You look good, too, Mutou-san."

"Thanks." His face takes on a hint of color that would make any other person look awkward, but to you, it only complements his smile. "So, shall we go in?"

You nod, and he walks in through the clear glass doors, pushing one of them open for you as you step in after him. The woman at the front desk shows you two to your table immediately, and it's a good spot, in a corner by a large and ornate window. The whole place feels so classy in a low-key way, with its polished wood tables and floors, its silks on the walls and its potted plants. However, it doesn't seem so sophisticated that you feel out of place, which you're glad about. The last thing you want to be is awkward on this night, especially when Mutou-san is being such a gentleman, even pulling out your chair for you before he seats himself.

While you're looking over the menu, you make conversation with him, and he responds in kind. Even once you two have ordered and the waiter has left, even when the waiter has returned with your food to set it in front of you, you find questions pouring out of you at a rapid rate as you ask all sorts of things, ranging from his life and his hobbies to his strategies and deck building. He is nothing but gracious, answering all your questions politely as he picks at his meal. Sometimes he looks at you in a way that strikes you as a little strange, as if you're being evaluated, analyzed, compared—but he never says anything _bad_, and you like the feeling of having his attention all to yourself, if only for just this one time.

When you're both finished and the bill has arrived, Mutou-san takes out his wallet to pay. His fingers brush against yours as you both reach for the bill at the same time, and an electric current rushes up your arm at the contact, however light it was. Heat infuses your cheeks and you hastily pull your hand back, watching him a little anxiously as he sets the roll of money on the table.

You stand up at the same time, and he gazes at you for a moment. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, something that you find endearing on him, before he speaks. But his voice sounds a little distant, as if his mind is on another plane entirely.

"Do you want to see the shop?" You blink, startled, before the question sinks in, and you realize what he's referring to. Kame Game Shop, the one his grandfather owns. You're a little surprised by the offer, but you say yes, because why not take the chance when it's given? He smiles, and your heart flutters again as you walk with him out the restaurant, back into the streets, when the sun has now dipped below the horizon and the sky is darkening.

The way to his grandfather's shop takes some time to travel, maybe at least twenty minutes, and it's so twisty and involves so many shortcuts and unfamiliar routes that by the time you reach it, you don't remember exactly how you'd be able to navigate it back to the restaurant again. When you tell him this, he reassures you not to worry, that he will take you back.

When you enter, the shop is dimly lit and empty. You ask where his grandfather is, and Mutou-san tells you he went to bed early, just before he left for your date. You look around in awe at the sheer amount of games lining the aisles, especially the booster packs. It's no wonder, then, that he's so talented at games: he clearly grew up with them in this place.

He leads you to the kitchen, just in the back. It's cozy, not too large to be spacious but not so small that it's cramped. He sits back against the table, and invites you to sit beside him. For a few moments, a companionable silence falls, and you use it to fiddle a little with the gold bracelet around your wrist, not quite sure what to say now that you've run out of questions to ask.

Then he leans over and kisses you.

For a second, you're frozen in place, too stunned to move. His mouth is soft against yours, much softer than you imagined it would be, and his tongue pushes lightly against your lips, as if asking for entry. His eyes—so lovely a shade of purple that reminds you of spring violets—are closed, while yours are just staring at him in shock. One of his hands reaches up, to graze your shoulder, and then that touch seems to be enough to snap you back into reality. You close your eyes as well and open your mouth slightly against his.

His tongue pushes in to press against yours, swiping around your mouth, and you involuntarily let out a little moan. You try to reciprocate, to push back, but it's painfully obvious that you have no clue what you're doing. This is the first time you've ever kissed anyone, let alone your crush. But you still try. You want to make it good for him in return.

After several long, lingering moments, he breaks away and you both are gasping a little for air. A drop of saliva has gathered at the corner of his mouth, sliding down his chin, and you find yourself mesmerized by it for a second before he wipes it away with his sleeve. His breathing is a little too sharp, and he reaches up again, this time to grasp your shoulders. His head is at an angle so that his eyes are downcast, shielded under his golden bangs.

You stare at him in confusion, still trying to regain your breath. "Mutou-san...?"

"Please don't call me that," Mutou-san whispers. His voice sounds faltering, ready to crack, but you don't understand why. "Please."

You continue to stare at him, not sure what to say. You want to ask what's wrong, why he sounds almost—almost _sad_, but a gut feeling tells you that's not the right thing to ask, not now. "Then...what do I call you?" you finally say.

"Aibou." His reply is swift, maybe a little too much so, as he looks up at you now. His eyes meet yours, and you swear that your heart skips a few beats just at that. He swallows. "Call me aibou. Please."

_Partner_? Your confusion has only increased, but you don't voice it aloud. If it's what he wants, then you'll give it. Anything to make him happy.

"Ai...bou," you say, stumbling over the word slightly. You repeat it, a little more clearly. "Aibou."

For a moment, Mutou-san stares at you, his gaze unreadable. Then he looks down and away from you again, muttering something to himself. You don't hear it clearly, but it sounds suspiciously like "close enough". _Close enough? To what? What is he talking about?_

But you don't have time to think on it much further, because then his lips are crashing against yours again, in a passion that catches you completely off-guard. He pushes you up against the kitchen table, hands tangling in your hair. You return in kind, wrapping your arms around his neck as he shifts his mouth to your throat, leaving a trail of kisses that leaves you moaning his name, and his fingers move to your shirt, fumbling as they unbutton it.

When your shirt is partially open, he reaches down to press more kisses down your lower chest, mouth sliding over the skin and tongue flicking out at a spot above your navel. But his eyes are closed the entire time, even as his fingertips skim your sides down to the edges of your hips and make you squirm slightly, and you have to bite your lip then to keep from screaming. _Look at me!_ _If you're going to do this to me, at least look at me! Just once!_

But he—Yugi, Mutou-san, "aibou"—doesn't. Not even when you jerk up against him, forcing him to move as you push up his shirt. You imitate what he did to you, pressing your hands onto his hips and mouth on his chest. He tips his head back, giving a little groan, as you impulsively pull down on his pants to get at more of his hips. He helps, fumbling a little as he unzips them and you push again, now so that his boxers slip from underneath, falling down around his knees.

For a split second, you realize what you're doing and you find yourself staring. His arousal is in full view, stiff between his legs as he leans against the table, giving a little gasp. Without any further thought to what exactly you're doing, you sink to your knees on the floor to take it into your mouth, tongue moving over the tip.

His reaction nearly causes you to choke. He thrusts forward, forcing you to move your head slightly back, and he moans, panting as you start to suck. Like with kissing, you have no idea what you're doing, acting only on what little knowledge you have about this kind of thing from some of your more experienced friends. You let your tongue flick in and out, swiping over the shaft occasionally, and Yugi moans again, longer and louder, his blunt fingernails now grazing your scalp as he clutches at your hair.

Suddenly, you realize you want to go home. Out of all possible outcomes, you'd never expected it to end up like this, and you weren't sure if that was a good thing. Yugi Mutou is—was?—your crush, and you admire—admired?—him greatly, but all of this now feels wrong. You feel as natural in this kind of situation like a fish on dry land. You feel—

But then you sense what's going to happen, just a fraction of a second before it does, and he climaxes with a scream.

"_Mou hitori no boku_!"

And then as he does, the revelation hits, in painfully perfect clarity, that Yugi has never once called you by your name.

White liquid gushes into your mouth, and you momentarily choke on it, sputtering as you swallow and wipe stray drops from your face. Your mouth tastes foul, and you have to gulp several more times in an effort to get out the aftertaste. You stay there on your knees for a few seconds, slowly buttoning your shirt back up, not daring to look up at Yugi.

After what seems like an eternity, you hear the sound of shifting, of clothes rustling. When you glance up, he's fully dressed again, avoiding your gaze as he offers you a hand.

You accept it, but the touch no longer sends an electric current through your body or heat into your face. Now, you only feel empty, as you stand there, at a complete loss as to what to say. Once again, you want to ask a million questions: _Why do you want me to call you "partner"? Why did you scream "other me"? Why won't you call me by my name? Why did you ask me out at all?_

He doesn't look at you as he speaks. "I'm sorry." His voice is hoarse, and cracks in the middle. "It's gotten late. I'll take you back."

And you don't bother pointing out to him that it's not that late, as you nod and wordlessly follow him out of the kitchen and out the shop.

* * *

The walk back to the restaurant is silent, the air heavy with unspoken tension. You can't look at him now, as you wrap your arms around yourself and fix your eyes on a point in the sky, not really seeing it. The only sound you hear, in the quiet of the falling night, is the steady click of Yugi's low-heeled shoes against the pavement.

When you get to the restaurant, the windows are still lit and the glass doors are still open. You stare blankly at it, wondering just how exactly the date you'd anticipated had gone from such warmth in there to such coldness out here, until a _ding _from your phone startles you out of your reverie. You pull it out from your pocket, finding that you've received new texts from your friends, all asking if you really went on a date with Yugi Mutou. Apparently, they spotted you with him at the restaurant. They're cheerful and teasing messages, with cutesy emoticons and hearts and questions about when your wedding will take place.

You stare at your phone in disbelief and then stow it away in your pocket. It's then that you know you can't tell them about tonight. Even the thought of it, of even mentioning anything about it to your friends, makes something twist in your stomach. You don't want to imagine how they'd react.

Yugi hasn't looked at you once the entire walk back, and now is no different. You want to scream at him, to rant, to cry, but you feel too numb to say anything. From what you can see on his face, he looks too ashamed to even make eye contact with you.

His voice sounds hollow when he talks. "Good night. I'll see you at school tomorrow."

You stare at him. "Aibou..."

"Don't." The word comes out as harsh and sharp, and you reflexively flinch as if struck. He seems to realize this, as he also winces and his voice is softer, kinder when he continues. "Please, don't call me that. Just...forget it. I'm sorry."

He repeats the apology as if saying it enough times is some kind of penance for a crime, but you don't say anything to accept or reject it. You only continue to stare. You wonder, briefly, if you ever really were that acquainted with Yugi at all.

With that, he turns, and he walks off, back in the direction of the game shop. You watch for several moments as he leaves, slightly hunched over, before you go on your way as well.

* * *

The next day, you don't watch Yugi Mutou as an admiring fan or even an acquaintance. You simply observe him whenever you see him: in class, in the halls, in the cafeteria, in the schoolyard. You see him whenever he isn't in conversation with his friends.

Girls approach him, as usual. They often flock to him in droves, following him with varying levels of discretion, hanging on every word he says and coming up with excuses to speak to him, to be near him, to touch him. Many hand him love letters, and he turns them all down.

But you notice that the only ones he seems to actually consider, before rejecting as usual, are the ones from certain girls. Girls with eyes turned up at the corners and confident voices and jackets over their shoulders. Girls with smirks and multicolored hair and gold bracelets. Girls who are top-notch or at least fairly skilled at Duel Monsters, who can duel him well, but not enough to beat him.

And you can only wonder why that is.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I'm not sure how I came up with this. I mainly just wrote it on a whim, based on how a fangirl of Yugi's would exactly think of him, and it spiraled off from there. I don't normally write in second-person, so this was a bit of a challenge. Reviews, especially constructive criticism, would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
